Thirty Days
by Daethule
Summary: A Human child and his family on their way to Esgaroth seek buried treasure in the forest of Greenwood the Great, and what they find there may not just change their own fortunes, but save the lives of the Greenwood Royals.
1. Chapter 1

Well this one just popped up unexpectedly, didn't it? A surprise for you, my faithful readers, and a little snack for my new ones. The OCs are mine, so no stealing! Though why you would want to is beyond me. Joram, Tissla, and Toram are one-timers; Aldamîr is my head healer in Mirkwood, so you will probably see him around often; Beryl is the Captain of the Guard, also in several of my fics; and Isilendiel is, of course, the Queen, as seen in "Blood and Flowers." Legolas is a still a child.

The chapters are long, but there are only two, and I couldn't bear to separate them any further. This fic was something…new. I hope it's never been done before, and I hope you like it.

Thirty Days

The year 1050, a shadow over Greenwood begins to appear… 

"Toram, get down from there before you fall!" the young woman called to her son attempting to climb the large oak tree beside the road. Even walking through most of the day as the small family was, the seven-year old boy still had energy to spare.

"Ah, let him be, Tissla," the boy's father laughed. "Perhaps he will actually sleep the whole night tonight."

"And if he falls and breaks his leg, what then, Joram? We have not the knowledge or the supplies to mend it," Tissla countered.

"Your mother is right, son. Come down now," Joram called. The small boy easily complied, shinnying down the tree and quickly displaying an odd-shaped branch he had found, before scurrying off after a squirrel.

After a few more minutes of walking, Toram was called back and a shaded place was found beside the road where they could rest and eat. A small loaf of bread and flask of water were taken from the family's old mare, which carried all of their remaining possessions.

Conditions in the small Human settlement that had lived in had not been good. The two was still recovering from a fire the year previously in which it had lost nearly a third of its inhabitants. Work was bad, pay was low, and food was scarce. After selling most of their possessions, Joram and his family had decided to make the north trip to Lake Town, which was reported to be thriving. None of the other families were willing to leave their homes or risk the journey with them.

The borders of Greenwood the Great were well within sight; every so often a stray tree, an extension of the forest, perhaps, would grace the roadside with much-desired shade. Yet the travelers did not venture into the woods, having heard the stories of weary wanderers entering them, never to be seen again.

Besides that, they were aware of the nearing Elven territory. The Wood-Elves were not known for their friendliness to other races, and were rather renowned for their fierce skills in battle. But all Elves were held in awe and not a little fear by Humans, seeing them as magical, dangerous, and otherworldly.

The family soon rose after their simple meal and continued on their road again, Joram leading the old grey mare. The man was not tall, but had a broad, sturdy build that suggested great strength. He had been a blacksmith before the fire, the most respected in the village, but in recent times had taken whatever odd jobs possible to help make ends meet. He had dark hair and dark eyes, but gentle features betraying his humorous countenance.

His wife, Tissla, was slender and a few inches shorter than he, with light brown hair and grey eyes. Their son Toram was a fair mix of both of them, with brown eyes and hair the color of his mother's.

Young Toram quickly skipped ahead of his parents, briefly examining every rock and hole along the way. His parents laughed at his antics, more than glad that he had remained unaffected by the move thus far.

The three continued well on into the afternoon, until Joram noticed the dark clouds gathering on the near horizon, heralds of the bad storm to come. After briefly discussing it with Tissla, he decided that the safest place to wait out the storm would be under the trees of Greenwood.

Calling Toram to them, they hastened toward the dark eave. The wind was quickly picking up in force and the first fat drops of rain were beginning to fall just as they reached the tree line. The three continued on into the woods until the dark sky could hardly be seen above them. Few were the drops that penetrated that dense canopy.

Settling on the soft grass against a large tree and tying the horse to a low-hanging branch, the three Humans sat to wait out the storm. It was surprisingly quiet, but the storm could be heard raging beyond their safe refuge, and they were glad of it.

After only half an hour of sitting quietly with no sign of the storm lightening up, Toram rose and proceeded to thoroughly explore their immediate surrounds. After finding nothing of great interest there, the boy declared that he was going to go seek buried treasure.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Tissla quickly countered. "Woods can be very dangerous places, and we don't know what's out there."

"I'm sure he'll be just fine, Tiss," Joram replied. "We're near enough to the edge of the forest, and all is quiet. Nothing will happen to him."

Tissla gave an exasperated sigh. "Fine, but stay within sight of us, or you'll sit with us until the storm passes."

Toram whooped excitedly, and scampered off. There was no sign of any animals or even flowers and all parts of the forest looked the same as the next. Not to be so easily dissuaded, Toram continued on, careful to keep in sight the tree his parents rested against.

After a few short minutes of easily ambling and the occasional pause to admire some twisted tree or other, something caught the young boy's eye. Almost straight ahead gleamed a pale shaft of sunlight, shining down into what looked to be a thicket of some sort, surrounded by tall hedges.

Pondering the presence of light piercing through the trees, for the storm was still to be heard as strong as ever, the boy bounded forward, but just as suddenly came to a halt. He glanced back. The tree his parents rested against was just within sight, and he knew that if he continued on, it would be lost from his sight.

But his interest already piqued, Toram quickly decided to go on. He would soon return; he just wanted to see what the light was.

He reached the thick hedge and eagerly pushed his way through. He came out on the other side to a small clearing, gently illuminated by the natural sunlight. Immediately, he was struck with a sense of peace and serenity, but also something else, something quiet and almost sad.

On the opposite side of the clearing stood a massive oak tree, with many interlacing branches—perfect for climbing if one could reach the lowest branches.

At the base of the great tree was a small mound of freshly turned earth, no more than two feet across and four long. The shaft of sunlight fell directly on the small, surrounded by small white flowers.

The clearing was utterly silent except for the sound of his own breathing and steps as he slowly walked forward. As he neared, something on the tree caught his eye, and he closely examined it, careful not to step on the fresh dirt or flowers.

Many curves and lines adorned the tree's bark, in some semblance of words, he thought. Toram stared at the carvings for a while, then down at the dirt, and a new thought sprang into his mind. Perhaps this was his buried treasure!

Getting down on his knees, he laid his hands on the dirt, something telling him not to touch it. But it was obvious that something had been done to it, and quite recently, and Toram knew he would never be able to rest until he knew what.

Gently sinking his fingers into the dirt, he was surprised at how soft it was and how easily it was removed. He soon had a hole a half-foot deep, and excitedly kept digging, laying the removed dirt to the side.

By the time the hole was two feet deep, he was lying on his stomach and stretching down to continue. Soon after, his fingers brushed against something hard, and he tapped and pounded until he was sure. He eagerly brushed away the dirt to reveal a dark, smooth wood. He stared at it for a long moment before giving a loud cry of joy and springing up, running back the way he had come.

Joram and Tissla jumped up at the sudden loud shout. "Toram," they breathed in horror at the same moment. They ran in the direction they thought it had come from, to come face to face with their son a few moments later as he ran towards them.

"What is it? What happened?"

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Their worry turned to confusion, though, as they noticed the huge smile and light of excitement on Toram's face. They did not have to wait long for an explanation.

"I found it!" he exclaimed. "I found buried treasure!"

He grabbed their hands and quickly led them back to the clearing. Pulled through the hedge, Joram and Tissla hit with the sense of serenity permeating the small clearing, disturbed though it was by the boy's excitement.

Toram rapidly started his tale, pointing out each thing as he said it. "First I saw the light so I came in here, and I saw the tree, and the weird carvings on it, and the fresh dirt, so I decided to dig in it, and I found something wooden!"

The two took in everything, Joram stepping closer to examine the carvings on the tree. "They look to be some sort of letters perhaps, but I have never seen the like of them before."

Tissla glanced uneasily about them. "Perhaps we should go…" There was something very wrong about this place.

Joram gently took Tissla by the shoulders, looking her steadily in the eye. "Tiss, this could be our lucky break. There could actually be something here. Do you want to pass that up? Do you wish to remain poor for the rest of our lives?"

Tissla lowered her eyes and Joram turned to the hole his son had dug. For many minutes, Joram and Toram labored away, enlarging the hole until most of the fresh dirt was removed.

The hole revealed a dark wooden box, about four feet long and less than two feet across. "Tiss," Joram requested, kneeling at one end of the hole. "Help me lift it."

Tissla obeyed, kneeling at the other end and reaching down to grasp the box. On the count of three, the two lifted the box, finding it only about a foot deep and surprisingly—and perhaps disappointingly—light. Toram was bouncing in excitement as they set it down next to the hole.

Brushing off a light layer of dirt revealed more of the strange lettering, inlaid in gold, at the head of the box. Tissla ran a hand over it as Joram pried at the lid. It was nailed tightly shut, but after much tugging and effort, he had managed to displace enough of the nails to get it open.

Tissla and Joram's eyes met again, one hand resting on the lid, ready to remove it. This could very well be the changing point in their lives. "Open it! Open it! Open it!" Toram cried excitedly.

Joram slowly lifted the lid, and what was then revealed to them elicited a small scream from Tissla and heavy gasps from the other two. Joram quickly grabbed his son and turned his head, not wishing him to see.

In the box lay a young boy, looking scarcely older than Toram. His hands were folded over his chest, and his bright golden hair fanned out beneath his head. His skin was as white as snow, and a calm look was upon his beautiful, serene features.

He was clad in a shining silver tunic and leggings of the same color. A small silver circlet adorned his brow, and beside was placed a small silver harp. Elegantly pointed ears could be seen through his hair. He was very obviously dead.

The three Humans immediately stepped back, both in shock and awe. "An Elf…" Tissla murmured, not really knowing what else to say. None of them had ever actually seen an Elf before, but had heard descriptions of them, and the fair being before them was undoubtedly one.

They stood that way, perfectly still for what seemed an eternity, as if expecting something to happen. Toram slowly moved forward with outstretched hand, and ever so gently touched the young Elf's cheek. "He's so cold," he whispered.

Snapping into action, as if awoken from a trance, Joram quickly grabbed his son's hand, pulling it away from the Elf. "Do not touch—" he started to say, but was interrupted.

Tissla gave another scream as a pale hand suddenly shot up, latching onto Joram's wrist. White eyelids flew open to reveal vacant grey eyes, focusing on nothing.

Joram also gave a startled cry, easily pulling away from the weak grip and quickly moving well out of reach, pulling Toram with him.

The Elf child's arm fell limply back to his side, his head tossing back and forth and slowly, before he suddenly went still again. His eyes remained open.

The three Humans looked on with eyes wide open, Tissla with one hand to her heart, Joram holding his wrist where the Elf child had caught it, and Toram tightly gripping his father's trousers. After several moments of absolute stillness, hardly daring to breathe, Tissla looked up to Joram then quickly back to the Elf. "Is he…what happened?"

"I do not know," Joram responded, cautiously walking forward. He lightly kicked the side of the box, but this elicited no reaction from the being inside. Not even a sign of breathing could be detected.

"I think he's…dead," Joram concluded after a moment.

"That's what we thought before he grabbed you, and obviously what someone else thought, too," Tissla was quick to point out. She did not quite know what to think of the entire situation.

"Perhaps it is the custom of the Elven folk to bury the living for some reason?" The idea was ludicrous, and Joram knew it. But at the moment he could think of nothing else.

Toram walked forward to peer down at the fair being. "He's hardly older than me, isn't he? Why do you think he died?"

Joram merely shrugged and Tissla was about to say something when the Elf's head turned to the other side and all three Humans jumped backwards. A slight whisper, more of a sigh, indiscernible to their ears passed his lips before he went still again.

"He is most definitely _not_ dead, Joram," Tissla said.

"What do we do now?" Toram asked.

Joram stood still for a long minute, pondering the situation. "Well, we cannot leave him out here alone…"

"His own folk did," Tissla interrupted.

"We do not know the whole story. Anything could have happened." Joram paused again. "I suppose we shall take him with us back to our little camp. We can think of something else there. Tiss, help me with this."

Tissla reluctantly took up one end of the box, lifting it with her husband. "Toram, get the lid, and try not to drag it," Joram said.

The three let the little clearing, walking slowly so as not to jostle their light burden. None of them noticed the storm had passed.

…………

Darkness. For so long there had been darkness. There used to be light piercing through once in a while, but that had stopped long ago. Now his world was only darkness.

He could not remember what had happened. For a long while, he had been able to sense his ada and naneth with him, but now they too were gone. He was along in the darkness.

Why was he in the dark? Surely there was something besides this, something before this, but he could not remember.

Suddenly a grey light appeared through the gloom and slowly grew. At first he shied away from the light, so used as he was to the dark. But as he adjusted to the new presence, he struggled to reach it, knowing that answers and peace lay within. But still the light evaded his touch.

Suddenly, he felt something touch his cheek, gently wiping away the tear that had fallen there unbidden. The touch withdrew, and he blindly reached out, grasping for anything he could hold onto. But his hand met only empty air, and he let it fall back limply to his side.

He collapsed back, helpless tears flooding his eyes and over spilling in little rivulets. He did not know how long he lay there, letting his thoughts dwell on nothing, before he thought he thought he heard something. Quickly perking up, he remained perfectly still, straining his ears for the slightest sound.

The sound came again, louder this time. He suddenly realized it was a voice, forming words through the darkness. "Legolas, come back to us," the voice said. "Come back to the light."

Legolas…that name…It was his! Someone was calling to him. He had not been forgotten. And that voice…he knew that voice. He had always known that voice, since the beginning of time.

"Naneth!" he called, his voice a hoarse whisper from disuse. "I am here! Naneth!" he called as loudly as he could.

But there was no response, and, having no strength remaining, he collapsed back into the darkness.

…………

Joram and his little family had set up camp back by the large tree they had rested against earlier, pitching their small tent they slept in, and lighting a little fire. They had set the Elf, still lying in the box (or coffin, they now realized) across the fire from the tent, though their eyes rarely left it.

The same thoughts were running through Joram's head as were Tissla's—What to do now? They could not very well leave him alone in the forest as he was. He was obviously very unwell and something very wrong had happened to cause him to be buried alive—unless it was a custom, as Joram had suggested.

They could not stay in the forest with him forever, though. Their supplies were running low enough as it was. Yet they certainly could not continue on to Lake Town and bring him with them. An Elf living among Humans? The idea was almost as ridiculous was the Elves burying their living as a custom. And besides that, they had no idea what was even wrong with him, much less how to help him.

Perhaps they should not even get involved. It was really no business of theirs what the Elves did with their own folk. The two Humans quickly discarded that idea, though. The Elf child was another living being, after all, and so young and innocent. If they left him out here alone he would surely die.

It seemed there was only one logical choice. They would take the young Elf with them, and continue on through Greenwood to find the Elf kingdom, and hope for the best.

Toram, however, was troubled by no such thoughts. Being of a youthful and naturally inquisitive nature, he felt only curiosity toward the new, strange being. But his parents had forbidden him to go near the Elf, unsure of what would happen. So he had to be content with watching from a distance.

Night soon fell, bringing with the issue of what to do with the Elf while they were sleeping. Tissla suggested that they secure the lid back over the box, but Joram responded that he would surely suffocate. Although, as Tissla pointed out, he had not suffocated before they had found him, and that had even been under feet of dirt.

This thought only deepened the mystery surrounding the Elf child. How had he survived being buried alive, and how long had it been? Surely it could not have been too long, for besides the physical demands of air and water, the dirt was still fresh and recently moved, and the carving on the tree fresh and not weathered. It had surely been no more than four days.

Finally Joram decided to set the lid over the box, although at an angle so there a large crack for air near the Elf's head. The lid, although very light, would surely prove an obstacle for the Elf in his weakened state. They would hear him if he regained consciousness and attempted to move.

They extinguished the fire and crawled into the tent, soon resting in a light, undisturbed sleep.

…………

He did not know whether his eyes were opened or closed; all was equally dark. Long he lay there, unable to move. Slowly, a grey slit of light appeared above him, hardly discernible, yet a sharp contrast to the darkness surrounding him.

He forced himself to move and raised his hand to touch the light, but could not. His hand met something hard, but he could not tell what it was. Raising his other hand and pushing with all his might, he felt the thing give way slightly.

But he could push no longer, weary beyond recollection. So tired…he had been tired for so long. He could hardly remember a time when he had not been tired.

His strength spent, the light again began to fade, swallowed by the darkness, as his eyes slowly drifted shut. Just before he could be totally taken again by the darkness, that light voice came again to his fading ears, sounding altogether urgent and sad at the same time. "Legolas, do not give in. You are so close. Please come back to us."

"Naneth?" His eyes hot open and a tiny slit of the grey light remained.

"Please, Legolas, please come back to us. I need you…"

"Naneth! I am trying…!" He brought his knees up this time and pushed against the heavy object. He had to get back…he had to escape this darkness…he had to get back to his mother. She needed him…

The heavy object was suddenly pulled away and the grey light flooded his sense, sending stabs of pain deep within his mind. "Naneth!" he cried out hoarsely.

…………

The three Humans were jolted awake just at dawn by a small voice crying out. Quickly crawling out of the tent, they rushed to the wooden box and Joram quickly removed the lid.

The Elf's eyes were opened wide and when the lid was removed he cried out in a tongue unfamiliar to them, before making an odd sort of choking noise. His clouded grey eyes rolled in the back of his head and his entire body began to twitch. It was gentle at first, but rapidly escalated in only a few seconds to a full-blown seizure.

"Do something, Joram!" Tissla cried, grabbing her son around the chest to prevent him from going any closer.

"What do you want me to do?" Joram responded, nearly panicking.

"I don't know!" Tissla shouted back. "Just do something! He'll hurt himself!"

Joram quickly stepped to the head of the box and grabbed the Elf child's shoulders, hauling him to an upright position.

The Elf continued to jerk violently, slamming his head back to meet with the Man behind him. Joram stumbled back slightly from the force of the blow as the air was knocked from him, but maintained his grip on the Elf.

"Joram!" Tissla suddenly cried out in horror. Joram looked down to see blood leaking steadily from the Elf's mouth as he coughed and choked.

"Tiss! A cloth!" he demanded. The woman ran to the tent and returned in a flash with a blanket. Joram took it and pried the seizing Elf's mouth open, pressing in a corner of the material.

Tissla grabbed Toram again, who had been watching everything with wide, frightened eyes, and pressed his face to her shoulder.

Less than a minute later, the Elf's fit slowly dulled to a slight trembling, and Joram removed the blanket. The corner was saturated in blood. He wiped away the blood on the Elf's face and gently opened his mouth again, grimacing at the sight presented. The Elf's tongue had several deep gashes in it, and, although covered in blood, Joram could tell that not all of them were fresh.

Joram held the Elf against him for several more minutes until the child's tremblings finally ceased altogether. The fair being's eyes slowly cracked open before he suddenly started coughing, struggling with the thick blood in his mouth and throat. Joram leaned him forward and gently patted his back as he expelled the blood, until he at last quieted and leaned back wearily.

The Elf's eyes closed for a moment, as if gathering his bearings, before opening to reveal not dull grey, but startlingly clear silver orbs. He cast a quick glance around him and cracked open his mouth, murmuring something they did not understand, though it clearly pained him.

After a moment when nobody made a move, he looked again more carefully at the three beings around him, his sharp gaze seeming to penetrate them. The two elder Humans could clearly see the pain and confusion in his eyes, but also the helplessness and fear.

He slowly opened his mouth again, and this time they were surprised to hear something they could understand come from his lips. "Water?" he rasped.

Tissla sprang up and retrieved a flask of water from the horse nearby and handed it to Joram, who held it to the Elf's lips.

The child eagerly drank, though the moment the liquid touched his tongue, he gave a pained cry and spat it back out, mixed with blood. He leaned forward, pain covering his fair features, clutching his side.

A few long moments passed before Joram gently pulled the Elf back with no resistance. He had lost consciousness again.

The three Humans remained still and silent for a long moment, as if absorbing all that had just happened. Finally Tissla took a deep breath and gently pushed Toram away with a hand at his back. "Go get something ready to eat, please."

She walked over and knelt before Joram, who still held the Elf before him. "His shirt is soiled," she said softly, gesturing to the Elf's bloodied front.

Joram nodded as his wife slowly undid the clasps on the front of the silver tunic. She gently removed it with her husband's help to reveal a white sleeveless shirt underneath.

She carefully folded the clothing and set it aside as she noticed a slight bulge around the Elf's middle, formerly hidden by the tunic. She gently lifted the shirt to find a clean white bandage underneath, wrapped all the way around him.

Casting a quick glance at Joram, who nodded in acceptance, she found the end of the bandage and began to unwind it. At last it fell away, and she gasped in dismay at the sight revealed.

A large, ugly wound, red and thickly adorned with black around the edges, marred the Elf's snowy white skin at his side. It was jagged and appeared to have been quite deep and very painful.

"Who could have done this?" Joram asked in horror and disgust for the person who would do such a thing to an innocent.

"No child should have to suffer thus," Tissla responded, equally dismayed.

"It cannot be more than a week or two old," Joram said, studying the ugly wound.

"Perhaps that is why he was buried. They knew he would not survive," Tissla pondered.

"The mysteries surrounding this child ever deepen," Joram sighed. "I only hope we may find answers, and before it is too late."

"What can we do with him on the journey?" Tissla asked, rewrapping the bandage around the Elf. "We cannot very well keep him in that…box."

"No, I suppose not." Joram paused and helped her tie off the bandage. "We shall have to leave it here then, and carry him. If we find the Elves, they can come back and get it."

"But what if he…dies…along the way?" Tissla inquired.

Joram looked up sharply. "Let us hope it does not come to that."

Just then Toram returned with a few pieces of bread and fruit and handed them to his parents. The small family ate in silence, all watching the Elf, still leaning against Joram's broad chest.

When they were preparing to leave, Tissla took a cloth and carefully the small silver harp in it, previously forgotten, and safely stowed it away in one of the saddle bags. She did the same for the bloody tunic and delicate circlet, which had come loose during the Elf's fit.

When all was ready, the box set under the large tree with the lid placed securely on top, the three Humans and horse set off on their new road. Joram held the feather-light Elf child in his arms, surprised but thankful for the nearly non-existent weight for the long journey ahead.

They walked slowly for several hours, feeling the urgency in the situation but unable to match it. The forest of Greenwood seemed to have a calming effect on them the further they went on, so much so that they eventually felt that they would be content to simply lie down and never move again.

They soon stopped to rest, and Joram gently set his precious burden against a large fir tree. From what he had heard about Elves, he knew that they had a strong connection with Nature, and hopefully reasoned that perhaps the tree could help revive the child

After all, they still needed answers to some very puzzling questions. Why was the child buried alive? Or perhaps he was not buried alive, after all. Perhaps he really had been dead but had come back to life.

Joram's eyes widened at the thought. If he had known much about Elves, he would have quickly discarded the idea, but, having the limited knowledge as most oft superstitious humans did, he could not totally put it past them.

And where had the Elf received such a horrible injury? He was obviously much too young to be a warrior, and Joram did not think Greenwood so desperate as to send out its children to war.

But Joram especially found himself wondering who exactly the mysterious Elven child was. The matter was obviously not as important as getting him home, or why he was even buried, but Joram could not help thinking about it.

He wondered if perhaps he was the child of a great Elven lord, judging but the silver circlet that had adorned his brow. Or perhaps it merely customary for the Fair Folk to bury their dead so.

Joram felt his fingers inexplicably drawn to the beautiful, innocent face, and gently touched the fair cheek. He quickly pulled his hand back, though, when he felt the Elf stir beneath his touch and give a soft moan.

…………

Legolas was again pulled from his dark world by a gentle voice calling his name. He quickly sat up, looking franticly around. He could have sword he heard…

That voice came again, and this he was sure of it. "Ada!" he cried out in a mixture of joy and panic. "Ada, where are you? I cannot see in the dark!"

A gentle touch came on his face, and he could almost _feel_ his father's smile. "Legolas, come back to the Light. Come back to us…"

Almost as if a hand was guiding him, Legolas began to walk through the darkness, focusing on sensing his father and listening for his voice.

…………

Joram gasped and fell backwards when the Elf's eyes suddenly flew open and caught him in their gaze. Tissla and Toram were behind him in a flash, staring cautiously with wide eyes at the fair being before them.

The Elf, seeing himself surrounded and outnumbered, pressed himself further back against the tree with a cry of "Ada!"

Joram, understanding this sign of fear, slowly scooted backwards so as not to frighten him more, and motioned for his wife and child to do the same.

The Elf narrowed his silver eyes at the three Humans, before they suddenly widened in open fear. "Edain!" he cried, and gave a gasp, his hand flying to his side with a grimace of pain.

Tissla quickly went to the horse and fetched the flask of water, slowly and cautiously offering it to the Elf.

His silver gaze flicked from her face to the flask, then back to her, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. Tissla shifted uncomfortably under the intense scrutiny, and pushed forward the flask.

The Elf slowly accepted it, taking a small sip. Obviously deeming it safe, he drank more, wincing as the smooth water ran over his injured tongue.

He carefully set the flask aside when he was finished with it, and again inspected the Humans before him. The woman looked wary of him, but she had kind eyes and he could tell that behind them was a pure heart.

The man was large and looked quite strong, but he also had a kind face. Of course, he had thought as much of the other Man—no, he would not allow his thoughts to go there. His wound throbbed painfully as if in remembrance. No, he could not trust this Man.

His eyes lightened, however, when they came to rest on the Human child. The boy's face was an open mask of curiosity, which the Elf found amusing. The child was still young enough to be innocent, and although the Elf could not trust the other Humans, he found no reason to fear the child.

Toram, seeing the Elf gazing at him, stepped forward and held out his hand. "Hello, I'm Toram," he introduced himself. "This is my father and mother. You're an Elf, right? I've never seen an Elf before."

The fair being looked at Toram to the hand he held out in puzzlement, trying to understand what all those words meant. Slowly he retrieved the water bottle from where it lay at his side and pressed it into the child's outstretched hand.

Joram chuckled quietly. "I do not think he knows what you are saying, son." He turned to the Elf and laid a hand on his own chest. "Joram," he stated simply, then held out his hand.

The Elf flinched back from it, and for a long moment, no one moved or said anything. "L-Legolas," he finally murmured after a while.

Joram smiled at this little achievement. At least they had a name for the child. Now for the main question that had been plaguing their minds since they had found him. "Why were you…um…buried?"

The Elf's face remained blank, so Joram decided to try again, using expressive hand gestures. "Why…you…buried?" He took a handful of dirt and sprinkled it over his own hand. The Elf's face now turned to one of confusion.

"Perhaps he does not know he was buried," Tissla suggested. "If you were dead, would you know?"

"That makes sense, except that he is obviously not dead," Joram pointed out.

Legolas started blinking tiredly, his little strength nearly depleted.

"Rest, Legolas," Tissla murmured. "We shall let no harm befall you."

The Elf soon drifted off, his eyes half-lidded.

"Why doesn't he close his eyes?" Toram asked, peering closely at the odd creature.

"I do not know," Joram replied. "Now leave him be. He needs to sleep."

"His side still pains him, as does his tongue," Tissla said softly. "Is there nothing we can do?"

"I know of nothing," Joram replied. "The wound in his side is long closed, and I have nothing to help his tongue. He shall have to heal on his own."

A moment of silence passed between them before Tissla broke it with her soft murmur of "Legolas." She repeated the name again, rolling over the letters of the foreign word, as if getting a feel for it. "A beautiful name, and somehow suiting for him. I wonder what it means."

"And _I_ wonder how old he is!" Toram piped up. "When do I get to play with him?"

Joram laughed slightly. "He needs to sleep right now, son, but I'm sure that there will be plenty of time to play with him along the road before we find his own folk."

Toram seemed somewhat appeased by this prospect, and was effectively quieted for some time about the matter.

The forest was now growing dim in the fading light, and Joram deemed it safer to stay where they were than to continue on in the dark.

The lit no fire, protected as they were in the thick forest from the elements. The Elf still had not moved at all by the time the Humans were ready to sleep, and they left him where he was, leaning against the tree. Tissla laid a blanket over the small body, tucking the small edges firmly around him.

She found herself wondering about the Elf's own mother. She was probably grieving at that moment, believing her young son to be dead, lying cold in his grave. Or perhaps the Elf no longer had a mother. Tissla's own mother had died when Tissla was still little, and in a way, she had never really gotten over it.

Tissla suddenly felt a great swell of pity and motherly love for Legolas—abandoned by his own people, left to die, alone and buried while he still breathed. She determined right then to make the most valiant effort to show love to young Elf, and comfort and help him whenever he needed it.

That resolved, Tissla crawled into the tent and slept soundly.

Morning dawned through the thick eaves to find that the Elf still had not moved at all during the night.

The three Humans made quick work of packing up their little camp and were soon on their way again, in the same order as the day before.

About noon, the Elf in Joram's arms began to stir awake again. Opening his eyes and suddenly realizing he was in the grasp of the strong Man, Legolas fought and squirmed earnestly until Joram had no choice but to drop the Elf for fear of hurting him.

Legolas immediately backed up to a tree, keeping the Humans well where he could plainly see them. His eyes were wide, and he looked much like a trapped animal cornered in the hunter's sights.

He risked a quick glance at his surroundings; he did not recognize this part of the forest. Where were these Humans taking him?

Legolas glanced up at the tree he was crouched against. There was a limb hanging low enough where he could reach it if he jumped…

Joram, seeing the disoriented and frightened look in the Elf's eyes, slowly raised his hands palms outward and took a step forward. At that moment, Legolas gave a mighty leap and caught hold of a branch far above his head and expertly pulled himself up, rapidly disappearing from sight below.

The three Humans gaped in astonishment for a moment before Joram quickly strode to the tree and began searching for a way that he might ascend.

"What are you doing?" Tissla exclaimed.

"Going after him," Joram replied simply.

"That was so amazing! Did you see that? How he just jumped up and WHOOSH!" Toram exclaimed, waving his arms dramatically.

"He is not well," Joram continued, ignoring his son. "He could easily fall and kill himself."

"Do you think he can teach me to climb like that!" Toram asked, his face beaming with excitement.

"He is an Elf! He was probably _born_ in a tree!" Tissla countered her husband.

"Well, I cannot simply leave him up there!" So saying, Toram leapt up and grasped onto the rough bark, shinnying up until he reached the lowest branch and pulling himself up.

He soon spotted the fair Elf leaning against the trunk, his knees brought up to his chest and both hands clutching his side. His eyes were clenched tightly shut and his breathing was hard and labored.

Joram slowly edged forward, keeping a tight hold on the branch he half-sat, half-lay on. He carefully stretched forth his hand, but as soon as he made contact with Legolas's skin, the Elf's eyes flew open, and with a cry of surprise, he launched himself to the side, away from the Human.

Joram surged forward as the Elf fell, brushing his fingers, but unable to do further. A second before he would have hit the ground, Legolas caught onto a think limb with one hand, but the pain from his strained wound became so great that he loosed his hand and fell to the ground a moment later.

Landing in a crouch, he collapsed onto his side, gasping as pain threatened to overtake him. He suddenly went still, and Tissla held her son back as Joram quickly descended from the tree.

He carefully turned the limp Elf onto his back to find his eyes closed, but no sign of outward injury. Lifting the white undershirt and pushing the bandage down out of the way revealed the old wound, swollen and angry.

"We must find his kin, quickly," Joram murmured, quickly scooping the child into his arms. The Elf's head lolled unnaturally against the man's chest, his body completely limp. "I fear what may happen if we do not."

At that moment the Elf suddenly twitched violently, nearly falling out of Joram's arms. "Not again," the Man breathed, quickly kneeling down and holding Legolas steadily in front of him.

The fit quickly escalated in violence till it was much worse than the previous one, and it was all Joram could do to keep the Elf from harming himself. Tissla quickly fetched the blanket they had used before and handed it to her husband. But the Elf's jaws were tightly clenched shut, and Joram could not pry them open.

But it did not appear that Legolas was causing himself any more harm, so Joram merely knelt there and held him as still as possible, arms firmly pinned to his sides, until the fit had passed after many minutes. Tissla and Toram could only watch on in silence.

Finally the Elf fell still again, and Joram hurriedly picked him up. Legolas trembled in his arms, so he had Tissla take a cloak from the baggage and wrap it around the Elf, covering him completely. They went on, more determined than ever.

It was late afternoon and the small company was ready to stop for another much-desired rest. Legolas had not moved in the slightest since his fit earlier that day.

A booming voice suddenly rang out from the trees, startling the three Humans and nearly making Joram lose his hold on the Elf in his arms. "In the name of the King, what outsiders dare tread his realm of Greenwood the Great?"

"Elves," Tissla breathed in a mixture of relief and fear.

"Please," Joram cried out loudly. "We seek your help. It is urgent…"

Five Elves jumped down out of the trees to land squarely in front of the Humans, four flanking one in front, bows ready with arrows already fitted to the strings.

"State your name and purpose in these woods, Human," the one in front commanded, his eyes hard. All had golden hair and silver-grey eyes, and were dressed in dark greens and browns, exceptional for blending into their surroundings.

"I am Joram, son of Gorma, and these are my wife and child. We seek the aid of you and your kin in a most urgent matter." He stepped forward, and the concealing cloak fell away from the form in his arms.

A collective gasp rose from the assembled warriors, along with several exclamations of shock in their own language. The leader, so far unarmed, had his bow drawn and pointed straight at Joram in an instant.

His eyes were cold and unforgiving, but he spoke with a heat that made the Humans before him shudder. "How dare you disturb his eternal rest. I should slay you where you stand."

Joram's eyes widened in fear. This was not how it was supposed to happen! "No! That is not it at all! We—"

"You shall pay for this, Human," the Elf interrupted him. "You shall surely be—"

He was cut off as Legolas suddenly stirred, as if woken from his daze by the familiar Elven voice. "Beryl?" he mumbled.

The Elf in question drew back, his eyes widening in shock as he lowered his bow. "What devilry is this?"

"None," Joram stated softly. "He lives still."

"But…how? He was—I saw—they buried—he was dead!" the Elf stuttered, overcome by shock and confusion.

"Beryl?" the scratchy voice called again, slightly louder.

Beryl quickly but gently snatched Legolas from Joram's arms, turning to his soldiers. "Bring the Humans," he commanded, running off into the trees. He shortly arrived in a large clearing where several horses were kept, and quickly picked out his own, mounting it and setting Legolas in front of him and pushing his horse into a gallop.

As soon as Beryl and Legolas had gone, four more Elves dropped down from the trees around them, and before the three Humans knew what was happening, their hands were securely bound before them with strong silvery rope.

"Wait!" Joram cried, pulling at his unbreakable bonds. "What are—"

Strong hands descended on his shoulders and he realized he was in no position to argue. Darkness suddenly closed in on him as a thick cloth was bound over his eyes, and from the two gasps of surprise he could tell that the same had been done to his wife and child.

The three were spun about several times until they had lost all sense of direction, and were kept steady only by the firm hands on their shoulders.

"Mother?" Toram's small voice questioned fearfully.

"Shh, child. It's all right. Everything is going to be fine," Tissla's calm voice reassured, but Joram knew better. She was also close to panicking.

"Go," a voice commanded, and they were pushed forward.

…………

After over a quarter of an hour of hard galloping, Beryl pulled his horse to a stop in the courtyard of the palace. Legolas moaned slightly at the sudden lack of movement, and Beryl quickly dismounted, gently pulling Legolas into his arms and running inside.

"Where is the king?" he shouted to no one in particular.

"I-in the throne room," a nearby servant answered. "Why are you—" But Beryl was already gone, running down the corridor, his precious burden clutched close to his chest.

As he approached, the great wooden doors were pulled open for him, and he burst in upon the scene before him.

Thranduil sat silently upon his great carved throne as he had for the past two days, his mighty shoulders bowed. No crown adorned his head, and his fair hair fell limply about his pale face. The two smaller thrones on either side of him sat cold and empty.

"My lord!" Beryl cried, hurrying forward.

"What is it, Captain?" Thranduil responded dully, not bothering to look up.

"My lord!" Beryl repeated, not really knowing what else to say.

Thranduil glanced up at his captain, his eyes widening at the familiar form in the other's arms. "What…what is the meaning of this?"

"My lord, he lives still!"

Thranduil sat back in surprise. "I-impossible!"

"It is true, sire," Beryl replied, holding Legolas forward. "Please, take him."

For a moment, the king sat there unmoving, until Legolas's silver eyes cracked open, focusing on the figure above him. "Ada?"

Fresh tears welled up in Thranduil's eyes as he took his son, holding him tightly to his chest. "Oh, my son, my son!" he cried. "I believed you were dead! I was there when you took your last breath! You were so still! So still and so cold…" The tears poured freely down the king's face, and Legolas closed his eyes, content to simply remain in his father's arms forever.

Legolas shuddered and his eyes slipped closed, his tight on his father loosening considerably. Thranduil looked up at Beryl with fear in his eyes. "What is happening?"

"My lord," the Captain replied slowly, hesitantly, "today is but the twenty-seventh day…"

"No!" Thranduil exclaimed. He looked down at his pale son, shaking him slightly in disbelief. "No! My son, my son! This cannot be! I only just got you back! I cannot lose you…not again."

"Sir, there is yet hope," Beryl spoke again. "He has survived thus far…" 'But that is what we all thought last time,' he added mentally.

Thranduil quickly stood, not bothering with a reply, and started running to the Healing Wing of the palace, his son held securely in his arms.

Beryl quickly followed him, throwing open the Healing Ward's doors when they got there. All the healers gaped openly when they saw whom the king carried.

Thranduil laid his son on one of the many beds, reluctantly letting go of him. "Why are you just standing there! Do something for him!" he snapped at the paralyzed healers.

They sprang into action, buzzing all around the prince's bed, edging the king and his captain back.

"Shall I send for the Queen, my lord?" Beryl suddenly realized. Thranduil was silent for a long moment, simply watching the halers and his son. "My lord?"

"No," he finally replied. "If he were to…if something were to happen to him…again…It would destroy her to lose him again so soon after having regained him."

"Sire?" Beryl replied, aghast.

Thranduil sighed and closed his eyes, covering his face with one hand. "No, of course. You are right. She deserves to know…to have her son back…for however short a time it may be. Please, fetch her immediately."

Beryl hastened out of the room and Thranduil continued to watch in silence as the healers worked.

They had removed the prince's shirt and unwrapped the old bandage. They washed the wound and applied fresh bandages, but there was not much more they could do, just as before.

Within minutes, a fair maiden with a sheet-white face but dark circles under her weary eyes, came bursting into the room. She first caught hold of Thranduil's arm and he reached out to steady her as her eyes settled on the figure on the bed.

Quickly, she sprang forward and without hesitation cast her arms over her still son. The healers stood back, heads bowed in respect for the queen as she wept in pure relief and joy.

Thranduil knelt beside her and wrapped a comforting arm around her. After several minutes, she finally looked up into the still face of her son and lovingly stroked his pale check. Then she looked to Thranduil, happiness again on her face for the first time in a long while. "How came this miracle to be?"

But instead of answering, the king turned to Beryl, who stood in the doorway. "My lord, my patrol came across three Humans in the woods, a few hours' walk from here. It was they who had the Prince. I left my patrol to bring them in while I rode ahead with the Prince."

"Have these Humans brought to my study immediately when they arrive," Thranduil ordered.

Beryl bowed and had turned to go, but turned back. "May I just say, your majesties, that I am very grateful the Prince has been returned to us."

The queen just smiled, looking at the pale face of her son, lovingly stroking it.

End of chapter. Only one left! That one will actually have a bit of excitement in it, as it deals with how Legolas was injured, etc. Will be up as soon as possible!


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks everyone so much for reviewing! I live off of them.

Oh! I forgot the disclaimer! (Does it really matter though?) Anyway, don't own, wouldn't want to! Well, I do own the story…but that's about it. And a few of the characters. But _that's_ it.

I'm not sure if Lake Town was even established at this time, and I'm rather too lazy to look it up, not that it would matter. It just works for the story. And I know Thranduil seems mighty forgiving in this chapter, and in hindsight I would not have written it this way, but it also works, and I'm not going to rewrite half the chapter.

Hehehe, I just can't stop giggling manically as I type this! I hope everyone enjoys.

Once again, Isilendiel is the queen.

Thirty Days

Chapter 2

The three Humans sat nervously in tall, straight-backed chairs before a great wooden desk. They had been led blindfolded through the forest for uncountable hours, guided right through the palace and into the king's study before having their blindfolds removed. They were weary, as they had been allowed few rests, little water, and no food by the suspicious Elves, not knowing what had happened to their prince and anxious to find out.

Now Joram, Tissla, and Toram waited silently in the large room for the Elven king to come. A large fire along one wall and other torches that lined the walls softly lit the room. There was a large window behind the desk they faced to let in better light, but it was heavily curtained at the moment.

The door opened slightly behind them, and they were alerted to someone entering by the soft swishing of robes. They resisted the urge to turn and see, except Toram, who stared openly.

Thranduil came round the desk, seating himself and observing the Humans before him for a moment. He created an imposing figure to the frightened three before him, his stern façade covering his weariness and joy. He had not wanted to leave his reclaimed son after spending the night with his wife at the child's bedside, but had much to speak of with these Humans.

Thranduil cleared his throat. "Allow me to first thank you for returning my son to me."

They still had not quite figured out who exactly Legolas was, though obviously his father was someone of great importance.

"Ah! Forgive my manners," Thranduil remembered. "You must hunger." He made a small motion and one of the guards flanking the door, whose presence had so far gone unnoticed by the Humans, slipped out.

"Uh…thank you, lord," Joram offered awkwardly. "I'm Joram, and this is my wife Tissla and son Toram."

Thranduil nodded politely. "I am Thranduil, king of this realm."

The two elder Humans froze, while Toram's eyes widened so much that the Elf was worried they might pop out. "Wow! A real king! Did you hear that, Mama? We never had a real king back home, did we, Papa?"

Thranduil smiled at the child's enthusiasm. "You must have many questions, but please, first tell me how all this came to be."

"Well, uh, your majesty," Joram stuttered, not quite knowing how to begin.

"We were on our way to Lake Town, your highness," Tissla helped. "And when a storm came, we sought shelter in the woods."

"But it was really boring just sitting around, so I went to go look for buried treasure!" Toram interrupted excitedly. He would not be left out of the telling.

"Toram, hush," his mother reprimanded softly.

"Our son stumbled upon the glade with fresh-turned dirt and strange carvings upon the tree, and believed he had found something," Joram continued. "So he came and got us and we started digging."

"Which we realize now was a mistake on our part!" Tissla quickly cut in upon seeing the king's brows furrow. "We should have never done that, and had we known it was a—grave, we never would have—"

Thranduil smiled slightly to relieve the worried woman. "It is alright. I am glad you did, for had you not, my son would surely be forever lost to me. However, I would advise against digging up any more graves."

"_I_ thought it was buried treasure," Toram put in, to which he received a disapproving look from Tissla.

"I understand," Thranduil smiled at the child. A servant entered with a try laden with fresh bread and fruits and set it on the desk, leaving as silently as she had come. "Please, help yourselves," Thranduil invited.

"Yum!" Toram exclaimed, grabbing a slice of hot bread and stuffing it into his mouth while his parents served themselves in a more dignified fashion.

Thranduil rose and retrieved a bottle of wine from a nearby cupboard along with three glasses. He poured the red wine and gave two of the glasses to the adults, keeping the third for himself, and brought another bottle from a lower shelf and poured some of it into a wooden cup for Toram.

"Um, your highness…" Tissla started.

"Worry not, my lady," Thranduil smiled at her understandingly. "My own son often comes in here. It is only juice."

Assured her young son was not drinking wine, she continued the tale as they ate. "We found the box and opened it, realizing our error upon seeing the child lying there." It never failed to amuse Thranduil at Human's misconceptions of Elven aging, for Legolas had more years than all three of the Humans combined. But he did not interrupt, letting the woman continue.

"We thought him dead, and I wanted to put him back, until he grabbed Joram's arm, all sudden-like. So then we knew he wasn't dead, and our only choice was to find help."

"So we carried him until your guards found us, although we had to leave the box behind," Joram said. "It's still somewhere near the clearing, if you would like to get it."

Thranduil grimaced, and Joram could have smacked himself. The Elf had just buried his son in it; of course he would not want it back. "I hope we shall never have need of it again," the Elvenking said softly.

"There was one other thing, your majesty," Tissla said slowly, as if not wanting to bring the subject up, but knowing she had to. "Along the way, your son had a few…fits that left him unconscious. And we found a bad wound in his side. Did this have anything to do with why he was buried in the first place?"

Thranduil closed his eyes upon hearing that his son was still suffering, long after he was supposed to rest in eternal peace. "It is a long story…but I guess you deserve to know. It all began only one short month ago…"

…………Flashback

Legolas looked up from his father's side as the king formally welcomed the Human ambassador to the Woodland Realm. There was much formality surrounding the visit of these strangers, requiring the young prince to always be on his best behavior and, worst of all, wear the hated formal robes. Yet he tolerated it all for the chance to closely observe the Humans with barely-concealed curiosity.

They came from a land far to the south, they said, and wished to possibly trade and ally themselves with the Elves. Thranduil had been wary of them from the start, though he did not show it, and only commanded that they were to be kept under observation at all times.

Had Thranduil known their true intent, he would have slaughtered every last one of them himself and left their corpses to rot in the forest. All had gone well until the third day of the Human's stay in the palace.

…………End flashback

Thranduil paused in his narrative as the three Humans before him stared in horror. Even Toram had stopped eating, eyes wide.

The Elf's eyes slid shut as he recalled that day. He could still remember that odd gleam in the Human leader's eyes that he had recognized too late for what it really was, could still see as the Man sprang at him without warning, wielding the long black knife before him. Only Thranduil's Elvish reflexes had saved him from instant death as he threw himself backwards just in time.

He could still hear the Man curse, knowing his only chance was wasted, and still see him make a run for it, the guards chasing him. Could still see his son's frightened face and pained eyes as his blood spilled to the floor…

…………Flashback

The Man had no chance of escape, and they all knew it. In desperation, the Man's eyes found the only hope of his freedom.

Thranduil's shout of warning came too late to his wide-eyed son, attracted by all the commotion. A moment later Legolas was in the firm grasp of the Man, remaining absolutely still in fear of the black knife at his throat.

Everyone froze and a malicious smile lit up the Man's face. He was now completely surrounded by Thranduil and his guards, all of who had weapons drawn and ready to strike. The king held up a hand as signal to his guards not to attack, but his eyes were glued to those of his son.

"There now, that's better, isn't it?" the Man grinned, tightening his grip on the young Elf. "No sudden moves now, hear? I want everybody to put their weapons down, nice and slow." When nobody moved, he screamed, "Do it now or so help me, I'll slice him in two!"

Legolas gasped as the blade pressed harder into his skin, though not enough to draw blood. Thranduil flinched at the look in his pleading eyes, motioning for his guards to do as the Man said.

"Good. Now all I want is safe passage out of these lands. Is that too much to ask for the life of your son?" the Man sneered. When Thranduil did not answer immediately, he continued sharply, "You may not realize this, dear King, but this blade is covered in poison, and I am the only one with the only known antidote. Even if the child does not die right away from the wound itself, he will die from the poison."

Thranduil's eyes had snapped up to the Man's. One thought ran through the back of his mind. How? How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let this happen?

"Of course," the Man continued casually, seeing he had the king's full attention, "there's a small chance he might survive. It he lives thirty days he just might make it. But," he grinned, "do you really want to take that chance?"

Thranduil fisted his hands, knuckles going white and nails drawing blood. A thousand thoughts ran though his mind and he could not bring himself to look into Legolas's eyes.

"Well?" the Man demanded, growing impatient.

"No!" Thranduil blurted, letting out a defeated sigh. "You may go, just…please, do not harm him." Tears welled up in his eyes.

"That's more like it," the Man smiled, but did not release the child. He slowly lowered the blade, though he kept his restraining arm around Legolas. He knew that as soon as he released the prince he would be dead. Looking into the Elvenking's eyes, he suddenly realized something. Even were Thranduil to keep his word and allow him safely out of the Forest, he knew the Elves would pursue him to the ends of the world if need be, and slay him. There was only one thing to do.

"No!" Thranduil screamed as the Man's knife disappeared up to the hilt into Legolas's side. The child's eyes only widened further as he let out a slight gasp of pain. The Man grinned at the look on Thranduil's face and pushed Legolas forward, turning to run.

Quicker than the eye could follow, Thranduil had grasped a sword from the ground and threw it with all his strength at the retreating Human. He fell to the ground dead, the sword piercing through him.

Thranduil collapsed to his knees next to his son, who lay motionless as he had fallen. He carefully turned Legolas onto his back, distraught at the amount of blood that already poured from the wound.

Legolas's wide eyes found his, their gaze pleading with Thranduil to make the pain go away. His hands firmly grasped the hilt of the knife still within him, and he tried to speak, but the words would not come. Blood rose in his throat and tears of pain leaked from his eyes. "Quickly! Fetch a healer!" Thranduil barked to the wide-eyed guards nearby, his voice cracking. He looked back to his son's eyes as he pressed his hands around the knife, trying vainly to slow the horrendous bleeding.

"Legolas? Legolas, please stay with me, please stay with me, my son. I could not stand to lose you. Just, please, do not go," Thranduil pleaded helplessly, tears burning his vision. He quickly swiped at them, not noticing as he smeared his own face with blood.

The red liquid seeped up through Legolas's lips as he fought for breath, his eyes never leaving his father's, seeking some reassurance that everything would be alright, that the pain would pass. He clutched tighter at the knife, blood now covering his clothes and pooling steadily around him. He gave a deep shuddering sigh through the blood in his throat as his brows furrowed.

Thranduil gave a cry as the tenseness seeped out of his son's body and the child's eyes slipped halfway shut as all movements stilled and his hands fell away from the knife.

Two healers materialized into Thranduil's small world, dropping to their knees on the other side of Legolas. Taking in the severity of the ghastly wound and the blood pooled around, one gently felt Legolas's neck for a pulse, letting out a disbelieving sigh when he found one, however faint. "We must get him to the Ward," he said, speaking of the Healing Rooms.

"No," the other quickly countered. "We cannot move him until we removed the blade."

"But he could bleed to death on the way!"

"The knife will only injure him more on the inside if we leave it in and jostle him. Now help me remove it."

The one carefully grasped the knife hilt as the other knelt ready with the bandages they had brought. A fresh torrent of blood flowed out of the wound as soon as the knife had been removed, and the bandages were soon soaked through.

"Quickly now," the healer murmured urgently, moving to pick up the prince, but was stopped by Thranduil.

"I will take him." The king carefully lifted his son into his arms, trying not to jostle him as they moved as quickly as they dared down to the Healing Ward. Legolas did not stir or make a sound throughout.

Thranduil lay him on one of the many beds in the large room, pushing Thranduil back as the healers surrounded the prince. "Telwen, fetch fresh bandages! Elenril, needle and thread! Luinen, get something to slow his heart! He is losing blood too quickly!" someone was shouting.

This stirred Thranduil out of his daze and cried "No!" causing everyone to pause and gaze inquiringly at him. "He…the Man said…it was poisoned…"

The healer cursed. They could not give Legolas anything until they knew what poison had been used, for fear the herbs would react badly with it.

Thranduil's wife suddenly rushed in, having been fetched by a guard. She halted and cried out in horror upon seeing Legolas covered in blood. She rushed forward, but was caught by Thranduil before she could reach the bedside. "Let them work."

"My son! My son!" she cried, pounding uselessly against her husband's chest to get free. "I must be with him!" He only held her tighter against him as she finally collapsed sobbing.

That day and all the following up until his son was returned to him were the worst of all of Thranduil's long life. For many days they did not know if Legolas would survive the wound itself, as he had lost much blood. For a week he did not move at all, lying as still as death, pale as snow, hovering between this world and the next.

His mother and father did not leave him for anything, the matters of the kingdom on hold as all awaited the fate of the prince. The other Humans with the delegation had been seized and thrown into the dungeons until further notice from the king.

But at last, on the seventh day after the near-fatal stabbing, the anxious parents were rewarded when their son at last awoke. The pale hand the queen held within her own twitched, and she looked excitedly to his face to see it scrunch in pain. She lay her other hand on his forehead, soothing the wrinkled brow, and whispered to Thranduil.

The king vaulted up in his chair where he had been lightly sleeping, grasping Legolas's hand over his wife's and calling to the healers.

Legolas slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the dim light of the room as a healer hurried over. The child's unfocused grey eyes found his mother's face smiling worriedly down at him, and questioned, "Naneth?"

"Aye, ion nin, I am here," she replied softly, relieved beyond words to see her child awake and hear his voice. "How do you feel?"

He grimaced as the pain caught up to awareness. "Hurts." He pressed a hand to his side where the pain was great, but that only made it worse, and he groaned.

"Do not touch, my prince," the healer gently reprimanded, taking his young lord's hand and laying it in that of his parents. "Not I must have a look at the wound. This will hurt, I fear."

He carefully cut away the old bandage from Legolas's side rather than unwrapping it. He gasped. "Aldamîr, come look," he hissed urgently to the head healer.

Aldamîr hastened over, he too gasping at what he saw.

"What? What is it?" Thranduil cried, standing to see the wound better. It was red and hot to the touch, still seeping blood, seeming only a day old. But all around the edge of the wound was black. "What does that mean?"

"My lord," Aldamîr began slowly after examining the wound closely by sight. "We had known the injury was not healing as it should, but we attributed it to the severity of it and the young age of Prince Legolas. But now I see that it is the poison affecting him, as we had hoped it would not."

"But…he will be alright, will he not?" the queen sought.

"I do not know, my lady. We shall see…in thirty days."

"What? Is there no way you could drain the poison?" Thranduil asked, not yet willing to give the fate of his child into the hands of time.

"It is too late," Aldamîr replied. "Even if it would have worked at one time, the poison is now spread through his entire body. The only thing we can do without an antidote is wait."

"Send for Elrond," Thranduil suddenly declared. "He is wide in these matters—perhaps he would determine the poison and find the antidote."

"Sire," Aldamîr said gently, "by the time a messenger was sent and Lord Elrond arrived, it would be too late already. We must make due with what we have here."

Thranduil sighed. He knew the truth of Aldamîr's words, but did not wish to accept the inevitable truth. There was nothing he could do. His only son could be dead within a month. There was nothing he could do…

"Have faith, my lord," Aldamîr comforted, gently laying a hand on his king's arm. "There is always hope. The prince is strong."

The queen squeezed Legolas's hand in grief at these words, her thoughts following Thranduil's. She looked to her son's face and gasped. The glazed eyes were dull grey instead of their normal bright silver, staring at nothing. One of his fingers twitched, and his head jerked to the side. "Legolas?"

The child gave a small chocking sound deep in his throat, the hand in his mother's clutching spasmodically. "Aldamîr…what is happening?" she questioned in fright. Legolas suddenly jerked violently, nearly throwing the blanket off.

"I fear he is having a seizure, my lady," the healer replied, trying to remain calm. "We must hold him still or he might hurt himself further."

The child vaulted halfway up, unseeing eyes opened wide, arms jerking. "Thranduil!" Isilendiel cried in alarm. The king looked up and noted with horror that blood spilled from his son's mouth.

"Restrain him!" Aldamîr shouted, grabbing the prince's shoulders to hold him still. "Telwen, a mouthpiece! Now!" The other quickly retrieved a long, broad strip of leather, which Aldamîr inserted between Legolas's teeth after carefully prying his jaws open.

He held Legolas firmly against him, having slid behind the child to grasp him better. With one hand on the prince's forehead Aldamîr held him against his shoulder, and with the other held his arms and chest back against his own, being careful to lean forward slightly so as to prevent the prince from choking on his own blood. Thranduil held his son's legs.

Slowly the fit eased until Legolas lay limp in Aldamîr's arms, eyes again closed. "Cloth," the healer demanded. He carefully removed the mouthpiece, now adorned with deep teeth marks, and gently washed the blood from Legolas's face with the wet cloth.

"Why was he bleeding? Is he alright?" Isilendiel asked anxiously.

"He appears to have bitten his tongue in the fit," Aldamîr said slowly, examining his patient's mouth. "Nothing that a little time will not heal. Elenril, a cup of water to wash the blood out. As for him being alright, I still do not know. He seems to be getting worse. I feared it may be so," he added sadly.

After carefully cleansing the prince's mouth, Aldamîr moved to check the wound again. "Ai, child," he sighed in dismay. The stab wound had started bleeding afresh, though it had never completely stopped. The healer carefully bound it again after cleaning it.

"Is there nothing you can give him?" the queen asked, tears in her eyes. Legolas's face was lightly creased in pain, even in unconsciousness. His breathing and heartbeat were very slow. "No salve for the wound or herb to take away the pain?"

"I am sorry, my lady," Aldamîr replied regretfully, "but my previous words still hold true. I can give him nothing until I know how it will react with the poison within him."

So they waited.

Isilendiel woke in the middle of the night to the sound of—but that was just it. There was no sound. None at all! The slow rhythmic breathing she had fallen asleep to was no longer there. "Legolas?" she queried. His still face was pale in the soft candlelight of the room.

She laid her head gently on his chest and grasped his wrist between her fingers, eyes growing wide as she felt nothing. "Aldamîr!" she screamed.

Thranduil vaulted up from where he had been sleeping exhaustedly in a chair next to the bed as the healer appeared in an instant.

Aldamîr immediately noted the blue tinge to Legolas's lips and his frightening stillness. He took up Isilendiel's position with his ear to the child's chest and fingers pressed to his neck. Nothing. He ripped off the bandage covering the wound. It was all black, no longer bleeding. But he was not about to give up.

The healer tilted Legolas's head back, quickly checking to see if anything obscured the airway, before pressing on the still chest. Thranduil held his wife as Aldamîr continued his ministrations for several minutes, with no response.

The healer shouted in denial, pounding harshly on the motionless figure in desperation. At last when he was beginning to give up hope, Isilendiel nearly sobbing in despair, the small body jerked up, mouth gaping for air.

Aldamîr collapsed back in relief, holding Legolas upright as the child gasped and coughed. Isilendiel barely restrained herself from grabbing her son up in her arms and never letting him go.

"Aldamîr, what just happened?" Thranduil asked, grasping his child's hand tightly.

"I cannot say for sure, my lord," the healer answered, not letting go of the still-gasping child. "Another result of the poison, no doubt."

"Will he be alright now?" Isilendiel questioned eagerly. It surely could not get any worse than this.

"My lady…it has only been a week," Aldamîr said softly. Isilendiel just lowered her head, hiding her silent tears.

The next morning dawned bright, and the Elf queen found herself wondering how the world could be so happy while there was so much pain in this room. She brought her tired eyes to Legolas's face, and her brow scrunched slightly.

The look of pain that had been constantly on his face since he was wounded was now gone, replaced by a quiet peace. He breathed easier, and it even appeared to her eyes that a soft flush of color had returned to his white cheeks, though it may have just been a trick of the early morning light.

She simply laid her head on his small shoulder, watching in detached amusement as his golden hair ruffled with her light sigh. "Naneth?" The voice was a whisper on the wind, and she closed her eyes, savoring the memory of her son's voice. "Naneth?" The voice was louder this time, and her brow furrowed. It seemed as if the voice had actually come from right beside her.

Isilendiel quickly sat up, a disbelieving smile washing over her tired face as Legolas stared back up at her. "Naneth? How long I have been asleep? I had a dream that it was raining, storming, but then the sun came out and all the little white flowers bloomed again."

Thranduil had woken at the soft voice, and he too now smiled down at Legolas, stroking his brow. "Hello, my son."

"Ada, why are you crying?" Legolas asked in a confused voice.

"I am so happy you are awake now," the king replied, not bothering to brush away the relieved tears. "We were worried for you. You were very sick, little one."

"Oh. I am feeling much better now." Legolas smiled, looking more like his old self than he had in a long time, despite his wan and tired features.

"We should get Aldamîr," Isilendiel whispered, though none of them moved, too caught up in the bliss of the peaceful moment.

Aldamîr entered the room just then, as if summoned by their thoughts alone, and nearly dropped the books he was carrying upon seeing his young prince awake and gazing at him. The healer deposited the books on the bedside table and reached to feel Legolas's pulse. It was still weak, but steadier now. "When did he wake?"

"Just a minute ago," Isilendiel answered, her eyes bright with the certainty that now all would be better. "He will be alright now, will he not?"

"I'm feeling much better now," Legolas repeated for the healer's benefit.

Aldamîr did not answer as he carefully removed the bandage from around the child's middle. The wound was starting to heal at last. It had closed over and the black edges surrounding it appeared to be fading. Aldamîr smiled at last. "You just may be recovering at last, my prince. But of course he will still be closely monitored," he added to Thranduil and Isilendiel. 'It is only day nine,' he thought to himself. There were still twenty-one more to certain.

Despite the healer's reservations, Legolas did indeed appear to be on the mend. He was not yet allowed out of bed, however, for as Aldamîr reminded them, he had lost much blood and was still very weak. Thranduil was now able to return to matters of the kingdom, which he had been neglecting since his son's wounding.

Isilendiel still remained most of the time by Legolas's bedside, reading or singing to him, though she was obviously joyful now as she had not been for a week, as one who knows they have been spared a great tragedy.

A few days after he had woken, Legolas was allowed to be taken outside, although he had to be carried and could only sit and not move about. But the child was grateful for even this, having missed the outdoors in the few days he had been forced to remain in bed and only look out the window.

Aldamîr was sure to keep a close eye on Legolas, never able to forget the fact that it was not yet the halfway mark to what the Human said. But Legolas was a strong child, and there was always the possibility that the poison worked differently on Humans and was not as potent to Elves.

Still, Legolas tired easily, and every waking moment seemed to lie heavily on him. But his parents did not let this dissuade them from the fact that their child was indeed recovering, and the kingdom rejoiced at the news.

It was the sixteenth day after the stabbing and Legolas lay in a deep sleep as Aldamîr changed the bandage over the wound. The child had been allowed to walk around his room that day, and even though it was painful and tiring for him, they could see how it greatly it cheered him.

Aldamîr narrowed his eyes at the wound. He may have simply been imagining it, but it looked to him as though the black around the wound, which had been slowly but steadily fading over the past week, was darker than it had been the day before.

The healer bent to examine the injury closely, gently laying one hand on it. His gaze snapped up as Legolas jerked at the touch in his sleep, and Aldamîr felt his spirits sink when he noted the child's eyes were closed. Perhaps it was merely because he had allowed Legolas to tax himself too heavily that day.

The child moaned softly and cracked his eyes open, soon finding Aldamîr by his side. "Alda…"

"Yes, my prince? What is it?" Aldamîr asked anxiously. Now that he thought of it, the child's face also appeared a bit paler…

"I don't fell well…Hurts." He moaned again and his hand found the old wound, where it was caught and held tightly by Aldamîr.

The healer's brows drew down into a troubled frown. Surely Legolas could not be suffering a relapse? Looking back at the child's face, he felt dread wash over him. It happened to be at the very rare moment that neither Thranduil or Isilendiel were at Legolas's side, so Aldamîr grabbed the first person he saw in the corridor, which was Beryl, the Captain of the Guard. "Fetch the King and Queen at once," the healer ordered.

"Is something wrong?"

"Just go! Hurry!" Aldamîr returned to his young patient, again examining the wound closely. By all accounts, a normal wound such as this should have been nearly healed by then, even for a child. But now he could plainly see that it was redder and around the edges it was growing dark again.

"Aldamîr?"

The healer started at the soft voice from the bed. He had nearly forgotten that the child was awake. "Yes, Legolas. I am here." He noted the way the small hands tightly clutched the sheets and the pale brow furrowed in pain.

"Hurts."

"I know." What else could he say, really? He could not give the child anything for the pain, not even a calming tea, for he still did not know what the rare poison used had been. He took up one of Legolas's hands again and stroked his brow. "You must be strong, my lord. Your father and mother still need you. Your kingdom needs you. The world is not ready to lose you yet. Please hold on."

Legolas showed no sign of having heard him, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Aldamîr simply stood beside him, unable to do more than he had already. The child suddenly gasped and arched his head back, face contorted in pain.

"Legolas?" the healer asked worriedly. "Legolas, can you hear me?" When no response was forthcoming, Aldamîr carefully pried open one eyelid to reveal dazed grey. 'No…'

The child gave an odd choking noise and clenched Aldamîr's hand painfully, gasping and jerking to the side. The healer grabbed Legolas's arms and slid behind him, resting his own head atop the child's. "No, do not do this. I am begging you, not again. He is too young!" Aldamîr was not quite sure whom he was talking to, but really it did not matter much. He only knew that Legolas was again suffering, and in pain, and his healer's mind told him he would not survive the poison, after all.

He could only hold the child as still as possible as the seizure escalated until a minute later when Thranduil and Isilendiel burst in, followed by Beryl. The three felt dread wash over them again as they beheld the child in the arms of the healer, completely tense and jerking violently.

The parents rushed to the bedside while Beryl lingered in the doorway, though they could do just as little as before. Finally with one last jerk, Legolas slammed his head back into Aldamîr behind him before falling still. The healer winced, but he only cradled the child until he was certain the fit was over.

Legolas lay completely motionless, grey eyes half-lidded, facial features slack. Isilendiel was the first to move. She laid a hand on his pale brow, gently brushing back the stray hair. "Legolas…my son, can you hear me? Why is he not responding to me, Aldamîr? What has happened?"

"It is the poison, my lady," Aldamîr answered quietly, not wanting to believe himself.

"The poison? But—he was recovering—was he not?" Thranduil stammered.

"I do not know," the healer admitted with a defeated sigh. "It is only day sixteen."

"No! He was getting better, I know it!" Isilendiel protested vehemently. "You saw him, Aldamîr! He was getting better, you saw him!" Her face crumpled into tears and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against Legolas's. "Do not leave me," she whispered.

But there was no answer.

For four days Legolas lay there motionless, blank eyes half-lidded, despite all Aldamîr could do. Thranduil and Isilendiel now never left their son's bedside for anything, rarely eating, sleeping, or speaking, heartbroken over this relapse. Beryl had assigned himself as their personal caretaker, never leaving their sides as he tried to get the royals to eat and sleep.

But one day, the twentieth since the child's poisoning, the parents felt their hearts leap with joy as Legolas stirred and looked at them. Isilendiel felt tears threaten as she gently kissed his brow. "My son, you had us so worried!"

"Are you in pain, Greenleaf?" Thranduil asked, grasping the child's hand tightly.

Legolas did not answer, merely gazed at his father then his mother. He raised a steady hand to her face, and she was surprised at the coldness of it. "Do not weep for me," he whispered.

"They are tears of joy," Isilendiel replied, more droplets spilling onto her son's white hand. "For you have returned to us."

Legolas squeezed his father's hand but still held his gaze on his mother. "Do not…weep for me."

Her brow drew down in a confused frown before his raised hand fell limply to his side and his grey eyes slid shut. The small hand grasping Thranduil's slowly went lax. "Legolas?" the king inquired in a frightened whisper. There was no response, and he noticed with a start that the child's chest was unmoving. "Aldamîr!" he shouted in panic.

The healer came running, quickly taking in the situation, wide-eyed Thranduil, frozen Isilendiel, and Legolas with bluing lips standing out against his snow-white face. Aldamîr pressed two fingers to the child's neck, but there was nothing. "Not again. I will not let you have him!" he whispered to some imaginary foe.

He pressed on the prince's chest harshly, giving him a breath between every few. Every minute or so he would lay his ear against Legolas's chest, hoping to hear a heartbeat, but none came. This continued for nearly a quarter of an hour, every failing blow becoming more desperate, each passing second crumbling the hope of everybody in the room.

Thranduil had stood and drawn and drawn Isilendiel to him, both watching with shattering hearts, silent tears streaming down their faces. Beryl hung back by the doorway, knowing it best not to get in the way, and could feel the immense growing grief threatening to smother everyone in the room.

At last Aldamîr collapsed forward, kneeling with his head on the bed, shoulders shaking in resignation and grief. This seemed to be the final straw for Isilendiel, who let out a loud wail and grabbed the still body of her son, pressing him close. Thranduil fell back into a chair, his own sobs threatening to break the dam and spill past his lips.

Beryl bowed his head and allowed a few tears to escape, then silently left the room. There were certain…preparations that had to be made, and no one in that chamber was in any shape to do so.

…………

The entire next day Isilendiel and Thranduil moved not one bit, the queen still in the same position with Legolas gently grasped in her arms. Thranduil had come to sit behind her, resting his head above hers, silver tears dropping into her hair. But her face was dry.

Aldamîr had locked himself in his quarters, not acknowledging anyone's presence, leaving Beryl to make the necessary arrangements.

The next day dawned bright, and the pure light filtered through the grief-induced haze of Isilendiel's mind. She slowly stirred and looked down at the cold form in her arms as though seeing it for the first time. She gently laid him on the bed, tenderly stroking the pale golden hair out of his face. "Do you think he is happy?" she asked softly.

Thranduil watched her gentle ministrations, stroking Legolas's cold fingers. "I think so. At least I know he is no longer hurting. Yes, he is happy."

Beryl slowly walked forward from where he had been standing in the doorway, his eyes caught on the still child. "My lord…I have made all the arrangements. I only need to know where you would like him to be—buried."

Thranduil merely sat silent, wishing with all his might that he did not have to think of this. "I know where," Isilendiel said softly, not looking up from her son. "The little glade, not far from here, where we used to go on picnics. He loved it there."

"Yes," Thranduil agreed. "Under that tree that he loved to climb. I think he would like that."

Beryl gave a small bow. "It shall be done, my lord." And he left.

After a while, Isilendiel sighed and stood. "I must find him something more suitable to wear. He cannot possibly wear that. Watch over him while I am gone, Thranduil."

So Thranduil was left alone with Legolas. He gently traced a finger over his son's high cheekbone, sighing and smiling lightly. "I remember the day you were born. You were so tiny! But you still caused your mother great pain. I feared that I might lose you both. But then I finally got to hold you in my arms for the first time, and all my worries vanished. You did not even cry, just looked up at me with your huge silver eyes. I promised myself just then that I would protect you forever and not let any hurt come to you. But now…I have failed in my oath, penneth. I failed to protect you and now we must all suffer for it.

"It is killing your mother. I can see it so clearly in her eyes, the same grief that threatens to swallow up my own heart. But I know that I must remain strong, for that is what you have wanted. I must remain strong for your mother. Perhaps together we can help save each other. But I fear it is too late for that already. She is hurt, Legolas, and only you can help her now."

Thranduil gave a watery, despairing sigh and fell silent. Not long after, Isilendiel returned wearing a simple black dress, with a black robe for Thranduil, and a small silver tunic and matching leggings in her arms, topped by a little silver harp. "I brought this," she said, setting the fine instrument beside him. "I thought he might like to have it. You remember how he loves to play on it for guests."

"I think that is wonderful idea," Thranduil agreed, helping change their son into the shimmering grey outfit and donning the somber black robes himself. Isilendiel placed the little harp in Legolas's hands and sighed. "He is missing his circlet."

Thranduil returned a few minutes later with said circlet, and carefully arranged it on Legolas's head. Isilendiel sighed again, resting her head on Thranduil's shoulder. "He is perfect. He looks like a child of the Valar." Thranduil said nothing, just held his wife was they gazed down on their son.

All too soon, Beryl came for them, telling them all was ready. Two Elves came in then, bearing a long box of polished dark wood, adorned with elegant gold engravings. It had obviously been in the making for some time, though Thranduil tried not to think of the reason why; it was too small for an adult. The Elves carefully laid the child in the coffin, their own eyes watering, and bore it out of the room. The royals followed numbly.

Elves stood on either side of them the entire way out of the palace, through the gates, and into the woods, all attired alike in black or dark green. Here and there quiet weeping could be heard, though most just stood silent in their grief.

Finally they arrived at the designated spot, the sun shining directly onto Legolas's favorite tree and the ground around it. Aldamîr was already there, looking much the worse for the wear. Thranduil eyed the freshly dug hole at the tree's base with something akin to disdain. Legolas was set down next to it, and his parents stood beside him.

Thranduil did not hear much of the short, simple service, his mind very far away. He was broken from his thoughts when Isilendiel gave a cry and surged forward, shouting for them not to take him from her. She latched onto the coffin, preventing the Elves from covering it, and her tears fell in earnest as her body shook uncontrollably.

Beryl gently but firmly pulled her to her feet, holding her tightly around the shoulders and slowly leading her back to the palace. Thranduil watched as they went, but could not follow them, not yet.

He looked down at Legolas, the still, cold face imprinting itself onto his mind forever. "Farewell, my son," he whispered, and they lowered the lid over the box. Thranduil watched listlessly as they lowered it into the ground, then covered it completely over with dirt, leaving a small mound.

Eventually the Elves dispersed, some coming by to say their final farewells to the beloved prince, but Thranduil did not notice. At last only one other remained with him.

Aldamîr knelt before his king, placing a hand over his heart. "Forgive, my lord. I have failed you."

"You have done no such thing, old friend," Thranduil returned quietly. "You did all you could for him, and for that I am eternally grateful. You made his last days as painless as possible."

When Thranduil was at last alone, he continued to stare at the raised mound for a long while. He fingered the dagger at his belt, slowly removing it and holding it before him. Then he stepped forward and began to painstakingly carve into the tree.

Legolas Thranduillion 

_Beloved Prince of Greenwood the Great_

_Much loved as a son and much missed,_

_Angel among Elves._

Then he sat down and simply wept.

…………End flashback

The three Humans before him sat awestruck, tears ready to fall, not for the first time, even in little Toram's eyes.

Thranduil felt his own heart ache as he had recounted the tragic happenings of the last month.

"I cannot begin to imagine what you and your wife have gone through," Tissla murmured, subconsciously pulling Toram closer to herself. "But at least it is all over now."

Thranduil sighed, closing his eyes and lowering his head briefly. "No, it is not. Today is only day twenty-seven. There are still three more to be certain."

"You mean, after all that, Legolas might still die!" Toram cried in disbelief.

"It is possible. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to return to my family." Thranduil stood, followed by the Humans. "Himlhach will show you to your quarters," he said, gesturing to one of the Elves standing by the door. "Thank you again for returning my son to us. You can never know…"

"I understand," Joram nodded, and they were escorted out of the room down through winding, twisting corridors until they had lost all sense of direction. They were given spacious quarters, with two large beds and a bathing chamber to the side.

"If you have need of anything, you have only to let me know," Himlhach told them, posting himself outside their door with one other. But the Humans could not blame the Elves for being cautious; their prince had nearly been killed by Humans not yet a month before.

…………

Thranduil found his wife in Legolas's room, softly singing as she combed her fingers through his hair, though there were tears running down her face. The child lay unresponsive on the bed, blank eyes half-lidded as in the days before his supposed death.

"I know it is not yet over," she said quietly, though she did not look up from Legolas's face. "Though I wish to the Valar. I know I would not survive if he were to be again snatched away."

"He will not be," Thranduil assured with more conviction than he felt. "Ilúvatar would not be so cruel as to take our child twice."

"You do not know that," Isilendiel whispered. "You cannot control fate, as much as we may wish it. It is in Ilúvatar's hands now."

The parents did not move from the bedside for the next three days, Aldamîr always near. Legolas's condition did not change in the slightest, though each passing day granted a little more hope to those who anxiously awaited the thirtieth day.

The three Humans were nearly forgotten by the king and queen, as they could only think of their ill son, but the three received no less attention and care and news they could from Beryl.

Finally the morning of the long awaited day dawned brightly, bringing with it all the pent-up emotions of the Elves. This would be the day that decided if Legolas were to live or die, if the queen would follow him to Mandos or remain here with him, if the kingdom of Greenwood foundered or stayed strong.

But Legolas remained oblivious to it all, unseeing eyes half-closed to the world.

The three Elves in the room were unsure if the child's continued state was good or ill, though the healer's mind in Aldamîr did not expect him to live out the night.

They were all joyfully surprised, then, when Legolas's eyes cleared and he blinked slowly up at them again. "I had a dream I was lying in a fair green meadow, but you were not there with me," he whispered to his parents.

Thranduil and Isilendiel let their tears of joy fall as they embraced their son, and he was well again.

…………Epilogue

Joram, Tissla, and Toram stayed on at the palace for a few more weeks to be certain that Legolas would be all right. The prince took longer than they would have liked to be up and about again, but he was assuredly on the mend.

Aldamîr never did determine the cause of Legolas's apparent death, and how he had survived being buried alive for four days, but at last concluded that the poison had so slowed his heart and breathing that it had been undetectable to them, yet still enough to keep him alive.

The remaining Men from the original delegation were released once it was determined that they had nothing to do with the attempt on the king's life, and subsequent injury of the prince. They were escorted to the border of the realm with only orders to never again return.

Joram and his family were well cared for during their time at the palace, though they were nervous at first as to how they would be treated, seeing that the Elves' last experience with Men had been anything but pleasant. They were surprised then, when most of the Elves regarded them as though nothing had ever happened.

But they could not remain with the Elves forever, and all too soon were on their way again. They were gifted with such things as they were obliged to accept, including a little bag of gold; a few simple, elegant gowns for Tissla' and Elven dagger for Joram; and a miniature bow and quiver of arrows for Toram.

Legolas stood between his parents at the departure, looking a bit more pale and tired than normal, but otherwise all right. The wound in his side was well on its way to disappearing, and Aldamîr had proclaimed him to be fine.

The young prince did not understand much of what was said, having barely begun his lessons in Common Speech, but would not have missed the occasion for anything. He had already had his father express his immense gratitude for him, and now stood before Toram.

"It's a shame you could never teach me to climb a tree like you can, or anything," the Human child remarked sadly, and Thranduil translated for his son.

Legolas smiled at the boy and spoke in Elvish with dancing eyes, "Do not ever lose your sense of curiosity." He then produced his little harp and handed it to the other child.

Toram's eyes widened as he accepted the gift, turning it over in his hands. "Oh, wow! A real silver harp! Mama, look at this!"

"What do you say?" Tissla reminded with a smile, and looked back to the Elven woman. Isilendiel also smiled, and her eyes were filled with joy. A conscious understanding passed between them, and they nodded to each other.

Thranduil and Joram clasped hands. "Thank you again, for everything," the king was saying. "Remember that you and your family will always be welcome in my realm." Joram bowed, and all too soon they were gone, their old grey mare laden down with provisions for the road.

"Namárië!" Legolas called as they disappeared through the gate, and the off-tune plucking of a harp was heard in reply. "Hannon le…"

Joram and his descendants held the friendship of the Wood-Elves for many years, until their tale of buried treasure was forgotten by all but the oldest Human wives, and the last of his line perished in the attack on Lake Town by the dragon Smaug.

…………Many years later

"We will rest here," Legolas declared to his patrol. They wearily dismounted and settled against or in the trees in the area. They were not far from the palace now, a few hours' hard ride, but the horses needed the rest as much as they.

Losglîn, a close friend of Legolas, sat beside the prince he leant against a large, very old oak tree. "So, milord," Losglîn began with ill-disguised grin. "What are your plans for the feast upon our return?"

"Feast?" Legolas queried, arching an eyebrow at his friend.

"Well, I figured that you might wish to reward me for my dashing bravery and outstanding courage upon this past patrol."

"Losglîn, you are a fool," Legolas laughed, shoving his friend away into what he thought was a large root overgrown by moss. They were both surprised therefore when it shifted and gave way to the younger Elf's weight. "What on Arda?" Legolas started.

The two began pulling away the moss and overgrowth until they caught a glimpse of dark polished wood underneath. More clearing found the object to be a box of no more than four feet by two feet.

"What in the name of the Valar is a box doing out here?" Losglîn queried in confusion. He grinned at his companion. "Hey, Legolas, perhaps it is buried treasure."

And so it was.

The End! (grins triumphantly) I managed to sneak Losglîn in there! I do love him. And also his father, Himlhach! I wrote this epilogue the other day, deciding that the first was even worse than this one, and it needed some finishing elements, such as dealing with the Men from the delegation, and Legolas finding his old coffin. Hehehe, I like that.

Cookies to anyone who can find one of my favorite lines from one of my favorite movies with my second favorite actor in it! I repeated it twice. Don't forget to review! (If anyone was confused as to the timeline of this story, I put it up on my LiveJournal, so you can check it to clarify.)


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